


Falling Still

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Ficlets [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Kissing, M/M, Minisode: Many Happy Returns, Post-Reichenbach, They're Just So Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...he accepted the whisky and went along with the joke."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Still

It was probably a bad idea, bringing that DVD 'round to John's flat. He hadn't thought it through. The forced smile, the assertion he probably wouldn't even watch it--John may as well have been staggering back clutching at the knife Greg had just shoved in his gut, eyes wide and wild with a panicky  _WHY?_  as he bled out his agony. The wash of guilt was enough to make Greg say yes, and take off his coat, and sit, when John offered him a belt of Macallan and went through a grotesque pantomime of casual amusement as he racked the bloody thing up and resumed his seat at the opposite end of the sofa from where Greg sat, awkward and with every instinct as a cop and a human screaming at him to  _get the hell out_.

Instead, he accepted the whisky and went along with the joke.

It couldn't have been more clear, the way John clutched his glass so hard Greg worried it would implode in a spray of crystal and a fount of blood, the way he cleared his throat, moistened his lips, sighed and tilted his head as if he could barely stand to watch except out of the corner of his eye. Everything about him said,  _I'm finally much better, and damn you, here you come again_. Greg matched him swallow for swallow, each sip accompanied by a silent prayer for the alcohol to do its work: dull the edges, anesthetize, clean the wounds. He knew by now, though, that it took much more than one generous pour to get him all the way there, to a muzzy, dreamlike place not where he didn't long for Sherlock, but where the longing swallowed him so wholly it seemed there was no other way he should ever feel.

And now here was Sherlock, frowning and on edge, pacing, caressing himself through his beautiful suit. Talking in his voice. Through his lips. Greg drained the glass--already?--and stole a glance at John in profile: crumpled, desperate face; twitch of a forced smile; glittering eyes. Greg had to look away. And where was there to look but at Sherlock, a fresh-mouthed kid, that posh arsehole, of course it was all a facade built up to protect the softest, most fragile man Greg had ever had the privilege to cradle in his hands. His throat ached.

The video ended and in the back of Greg's head echoed a plea of don't go, and John rose suddenly to his feet, rested his hand on the box of Sherlock's nothing-much Greg had brought. His voice was full of gravel. "Thanks for coming over, Greg. It's. . ." he cleared his throat. "To have something of his. Of him. . ." John sniffed his nose in a half-circle.

Greg nodded tightly. Half-aware of absolving himself of rational thought, he rose and covered the small distance between them, and his hands closed around John's face and whisky-wet mouths came open with a sad moan from one or both of them, and they nodded into it-- _yes, this is fine, you're all that's left of him and it will do; it will help; it's fine, it's right; somehow it will save us_ \--and their fingers raced ahead to buttons and belt buckles and zips, probing tongues searching for the scent of him inside each other's mouths. Each of their whiskers burned the other's cheek.

An awkward tumble onto the sofa, eyes shut tight against broad daylight, against proof of whose mouth was being kissed, whose hands were being licked and spat on, whose fingers were winding together around both of their pricks as they grunted and gasped against each other, every gulp a sob-- _you're all that's left of him and it will have to do_ \--and to feel something, feel something loud and crushing and good,  _god, so good_ , even just for a few minutes, is better than to feel hollow and ashamed of the inability to let it go.

He fell and fell and he is falling still. He will fall forever because neither of them can bear to contemplate the landing.


End file.
